


Amatus Vhenan

by Kate_Shepard



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Comfort, Feelings, M/M, Protectiveness, Slavery, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Shepard/pseuds/Kate_Shepard
Summary: When Lavellan decides to hold the line to buy his clan time to escape from raiders, he expects to die. What he doesn't expect is to end up in the household of a very handsome shemlen mage as a bargaining chip among nobles. He wants to go home to his people, but can he bring himself to leave?
Relationships: Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Mage Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	Amatus Vhenan

_~*~_

**One**

_~*~_

The attack came with little warning. Scouts had gone missing in the days before, but there had been no sign of a force like the one that hit Clan Lavellan in the early hours of the morning when they were asleep in their tents and aravels. 

The guards’ shouts brought Caen out of a sound sleep wherein he’d been dreaming of riding a griffon. He bolted upright, grabbing his staff and scrambling outside. The thrum of bowstrings and crackle of fire filled the air as the hunters dipped their arrows into the flames and tried valiantly to keep the intruders at bay. 

It wouldn’t be enough, he saw, joining Keeper Istimaethoriel in the center of camp and shooting a lightning bolt at one of the intruders. Laying down a wall of flame over the neck of the camp entrance, he looked over at her.

“What do we do?” 

The camp was about to be overrun, and their bows and staves would do little against the raiders’ swords. If they’d been better positioned or had warning, they could have withstood for days. As it was, one of the aravels had broken an axle and they’d had to set up camp in one of the least defensible places they could have chosen in the whole of the Free Marches. 

“We must evacuate,” she said, healing a fallen hunter. “We can return for our homes, but for now, there is a network of caves that runs nearby where we can hide them.”

“Take them,” he said. His staff shot bolts of energy at a shemlen, dropping him. “I will remain with the hunters to guard your escape.”

“No,” she insisted. “You must lead them. You are my First.”

He shook his head, pivoting around to take down a bandit attempting to flank them. Roots burst from the ground, impaling the raider. Caen turned and summoned a wall of thorns between a trio of intruders and Farel, one of the clan children.

He said, “You are more important. My training is incomplete. You can train the Second to take my place, but we cannot replace the knowledge that will be lost if you fall. Go, Keeper. I will hold them.”

“This is not the way it is supposed to be,” she insisted. “I am not meant to outlive you. I cannot let you do this.”

“You must. _Dareth shiral,_ Mother _. Ar lath ma_.”

“Come back to us.” She gave him a tormented look and broke off, running through the camp and barking orders. He called the hunters into a line with him and cast a protective barrier around them. 

“ _Mar solas ena mar din_!” he shouted to the invaders. “ _Masal din’an. Fen’Harel ma halam_!” Empty threats and bluster, but they rallied the People and hopefully struck fear into the enemy. 

The night turned into a sinister painting. Orange streamed behind flaming arrows that lit the dark sky. Blue streaked from his staff. Red splattered black in the dark from swords and hammers and mauls. Yellow and red leapt from burning aravels. 

The camp emptied of all but the fighters, but they couldn’t retreat toward the caves. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Stand and fight. Fight and die. They were surrounded. The raiders closed in. Bows and staves and ironbark clashing against steel and iron. The trap snapped shut. 

There were old ways to escape it, forbidden ways. He could use blood. He could summon aid. Would it not be worth any price to save his people? One demon could destroy these invaders. But no. He could not. He would not. Better to die free than live enslaved to monsters. 

Something slammed into the back of his head and the world went black.

~*~*~

“This is a pretty one. And a mage. He’ll fetch a good price.”

“Templars won’t pay shit for him. They’re as like to kill us for not killing him.”

“Not the Templars. The Vints.”

“Ohhh. Yeah. They’re always in the market for more slaves, especially knife-ears.”

~*~*~

“Wake up, boy. Can’t have you starving yourself.”

“Don’t kick him. They won’t pay as much if he’s all bruised up. He’s already banged up enough.”

“Then you get him up. It’s your fault he’s like this anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, blame me for it.”

“Two more days to the Ventus market. Just make sure he’s still alive.”

~*~*~

Caen had only been to a handful of human cities, and never to Tevinter. The market bustled with more shemlen than he’d seen in a lifetime, and it seemed that at least half the people he saw—both human and elf—wore collars around their necks. Some moved meekly through the crowds, trying to be invisible. Others strode proudly, almost as haughty as the freemen around them. 

Slaves carried litters on which finely-dressed men and women reclined. Men in Chantry robes meandered the streets. Women held their dresses above their ankles as they browsed the shops. A dark-haired man in a long robe with an elvhen slave behind him stopped as Caen was pushed onto the platform from which Da’rel, the last of their surviving hunters, had just been sold to a poor mage woman for a handful of coppers.

Mages were everywhere. Moreover, the wealthier a person appeared, the more likely they were to be carrying a staff, and the more intricate the staff, the more power they seemed to command. What manner of place was this? He knew little of Tevinter but that the humans claimed that their magisters caused the Blights and the darkspawn, and that they were known for their slavery and their cruelty. 

The man lifted a finger when the shem running the auction began to call out numbers. Bidding, the human was bidding on him. Like he was an object. Caen struggled against his bonds, ready to run—though where he would run to, he didn’t know—but magic caged him, freezing him in place. 

“One sovereign three,” the man called out. 

“Sold to Magister Pavus.” 

Someone prodded him from behind, pushing him down the stairs to the shemlen who thought he owned him now. This was not what he’d had in mind when he’d chosen to sacrifice himself for his clan. Death would have been preferable. But the thought of the Keeper in his place was untenable. He never would have forgiven himself had he allowed her to be taken or killed.

The magister eyed him up and down before gesturing for him to follow. He turned to bolt, but an elf caught him by the wrist and pushed him toward the magister. He scowled and jerked free.

The elf hissed, “Do as you’re told. The master is patient but will not tolerate escape attempts.”

The magister turned away as if unconcerned with what Caen would do, likely certain that the other slave would keep him in line. He followed. He dragged his feet and clenched his fists, but he followed. The magister climbed aboard a waiting litter, and Caen and the other elf walked behind. They walked through a grand city, resplendent with excess, down streets lined with extravagant mansions with architecture the likes of which he’d never seen even in the richest cities of the Free Marches. Dragons marked every surface from looming golden statues to carvings in stone to the heads of staves.

Mansions gave way to homes and then to slums as they neared the looming city gates. Leaving the city gave him hope. He could escape into the forest and find his way home. But though they journeyed for almost a day, the opportunity never came. The other elf, a female by the name of Lathiel, kept a sharp eye on him. She was the magister’s personal slave, and once she finally deigned to speak to him, she opened up.

“What do they want from me?” he demanded.

She said, “You are to be Master Dorian’s personal servant. Next to liberati or a magister’s servant like myself, it’s one of the most prestigious roles a slave can hold. Some people strive their whole lives to attain the status you’ve fallen into. Of course, that's assuming Master Dorian accepts you. He’s turned down all the ones Master has brought to him so far. They’re laborers now, though one found favor with Mistress Aquinea and accompanied her to the city.”

“What do you mean ‘personal servant’?” he asked. “Am I to fetch his food and clean his clothes and change his linens?” 

He had servants who'd done similar things once he'd begun his apprenticeship. His studies required time when they weren’t on the move, and mundane tasks took away from them. Those servants had a choice, though. He didn't.

“Among other things, yes, though I believe your duties are meant to be more of an intimate nature, like mine.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “The master and mistress despise each other. They always have. They’ve done their duty to create a mage heir, and now they live separately. Master keeps the estate, and Mistress lives in Ventus at their winter home, though she’s returned to deal with Master Dorian. 

“Both of them have favored slaves who provide them with companionship, though we aren’t publicly acknowledged. I have been Master’s for ten years now. Master Dorian prefers men, though, and he’s refused to marry. You are meant to be Master’s compromise with him, but the young master is stubborn and doesn’t want an arrangement like his parents have.”

“Why is that a problem?” he asked, trying not to reel at the idea that he’d been bought to be used by some stranger. 

“Because he’s not a very good heir if he won’t marry and have children, now, is he?” she asked archly. 

“So choose another.”

“He’s their only child,” she huffed. “They can’t just pick another off the streets. The magisters breed like a master does horses. Bloodlines are important. Each child born to them is planned, sometimes from the time their parents are children. Master Dorian was betrothed before he was old enough to sit up, but he sabotaged the arrangement. The line of House Pavus ends with him unless Master can get him to cooperate. You are the last resort before he turns to...desperate measures.”

“And I’m expected to have sex with him,” he said flatly.

She said matter-of-factly. “You will entertain him when he’s bored, advise him if he asks for it, share his meals, share his bed, share his counsel. Don’t worry. He’s quite handsome. There are few slaves in our household who won’t envy you. He’s an Enchanter with the Minrathous Circle, and he’s always treated us well. You could do worse. Of course, he’s also rebellious, debauched, against everything his family stands for, cares nothing for his good name, and is practically imprisoned in his quarters due to his own behavior. So I suppose you could do better, too.”

“You don’t seem to like him very much,” Caen said, edging toward the side of the road.

Perhaps if he said he needed to go relieve himself, he could buy enough time for a head start. He just needed to make her believe that he’d accepted his fate.

She scowled. “I neither like nor dislike him. What I dislike is the trouble he causes his father. My poor master tries and tries to find a compromise with him, but Master Dorian is determined to sabotage every attempt to refine him. He hurt another boy dueling at nine years old. Nine! Got himself kicked out of the Circle for it. Got kicked out of every other Circle after that, too. Then he ran away and got caught in an elven brothel. Fortunately for him, Magister Alexius took pity on him and took him in as an apprentice and got him ranked as an Enchanter. But now he’s even thrown that connection away.”

She dropped her voice again. “When Master found him this time, he was living in a rented manse with a young soporati man, a praesumptor, a liberati elf, and a qunari! Having orgies with them! He hadn’t been sober in three days and I heard he’d been snorting lyrium dust. He was ranting about blood mages and the downfall of the magisterium even though his own father is a magister and consigliere to the Archon himself! My master is going to have to step down if Master Dorian doesn’t stop acting like a heathen. It’s disrespectful!”

His steps slowed as he gaped at her. “You...you actually care about these people.”

“Of course I do. They’re good owners. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re a slave!”

She blinked at him. “Yes. And?”

“You don’t want to escape? To be free? To get away? You don’t hate them for holding you captive?”

She reached out and grabbed his wrist again to get him moving. “No. Why would I? I told you. They’re good to us. Do you know how hard it is for the soporati here? Or the liberati? I would have to live in slums in Ventus or Minrathous, fighting for scraps of bread, perhaps marrying some poor human and hoping that one of our children would have magic and find a better life. Here, I serve my master, share all he has, live in luxury, never go hungry, and even raise children with him. Is there really such a difference between ‘wife’ and ‘slave’ in that case?”

“Wives get to choose!” he said.

“And I would choose this,” she insisted. “Now shut up and walk. We’re almost home.”

Fear spiked in his belly when the walls of the estate came into view. Once he went in, would he ever get out? His worst nightmares had never prepared him for this fate.

“This place will never be home.”

* * *

_~*~_

**Two**

_~*~_

Dorian looked up from his writing desk when the door to his cell opened and his jailer entered. His father came into the bedroom with a wide-eyed elf beside him.

He would call the elf handsome if not for the pallor of his face and the fear in his emerald eyes. He was lean but muscular, with elegant ears and a face somewhat lacking the sharpness of most elves. It was in his jaw, he decided, strong but nevertheless refined. That was only enhanced by his smooth brow, high cheeks, long aristocratic nose, and full lips that would look absolutely divine all flushed and swollen from his kisses. That silken white hair would stand out against his fingers like a shock if he were to bury his hands in it.

He’d been locked away far too long if he was fantasizing about a slave. He preferred his bed partners willing. He also liked them to be able to turn him down so that he knew it was him they wanted, and not that they were only doing it because he’d ordered it. Still, at least this time Father brought him a pretty one.

“Another sacrificial lamb, Father? Do I need to tell you that I do not want it, or will you get the hint and just assume this time?” he asked.

The magister sighed heavily. “I am trying to compromise with you, Dorian. I chose him specifically for you. He is young. He is handsome. He is foreign. And he is an elf, which I am aware you prefer. You can have him and still do your duty as I have.”

“No!” Dorian snapped, getting to his feet. “I will not live your life. How many times must I tell you that I will not spend the rest of my days screaming on the inside? Why can you not just accept me as I am?”

“Dorian, please just listen—”

“No! Take him away!”

His father’s face and voice hardened. “No. You will keep him. Pass your time with him however you wish, but if you do not keep him, I will make him your gift to Alexius for his experiments.”

Dorian’s fist clenched around his quill, snapping it. Father knew why he’d left Alexius. He knew exactly what he threatened, and he would follow through. This poor boy was terrified enough already. Dorian would not give him over to that. 

“Fine,” he ground out. “You may go. Leave him.”

“Dorian—”

“Good day, Father.” 

He resumed his seat at the desk and cast aside the broken quill, reaching for another. Father hesitated for a moment before closing the door behind him and leaving Dorian and the elf alone. Raking his hands through his hair, he hung his head.

If only his family could accept him. If only he hadn’t been born into nobility. No one would care what he did or who he did it with if he was a quaestor. Of course, he’d likely go mad with boredom out at the arse end of the world, but there were worse fates. He _could_ be a scared slave.

The elf still stood behind him, and Dorian finally noticed that his hands were still bound. His wrists were chafed raw beneath the bonds. Had Father even looked at the boy beyond deciding he was his type?

“Come here,” he said wearily, picking up his letter opener.

The elf’s eyes widened again and he took a step back. “Don’t touch me.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at that, his lips quirking. He couldn’t remember ever being ordered or refused anything by a slave. This one was spirited, at least, even if he was frightened. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. I simply want to remove your bonds. I am Dorian Pavus. What is your name?”

“Caen Lavellan,” he answered in an accent Dorian couldn’t identify. Warily, he crept forward, holding out his wrists.

Dorian sliced through the ropes, catching his hands before he could pull away, and turned them over, examining the abraded flesh. Whoever had tied him hadn’t been in the least concerned about his comfort. He waved a hand over him, healing the wounds. Caen’s eyes widened and he relaxed slightly.

“Where are you from?” Dorian asked. “You’re foreign. How did you come to be with my family?”

Caen swallowed visibly, averting his eyes, his chin trembling. “I’m Dalish. Of the Free Marches. I was First to the Keeper,” he whispered. “There was a raid. I stayed behind to buy the others time, but there were too many. I was captured. They brought me here because I’m a mage.”

Dorian froze, looking up at him. He knew a little of the Dalish from his elven companions. Keepers were their leaders, their historians, their grand enchanters. This wasn’t a man who’d lived in an alienage and sold himself to escape poverty or born into slavery. 

“Wait. You’re telling me that only a few days ago, you were, what, elvish nobility? And now you’re my slave?” 

“Not nobility, exactly, no, but close enough, I suppose,” Caen said miserably.

“That must be quite the culture shock,” Dorian said. 

Poor boy. He could empathize. Only a few weeks ago, he was living on his own, enjoying life for once, and then his parents had kidnapped him and locked him in his quarters like a prisoner until he agreed to do what they wanted. In some ways, he felt like a slave, albeit a pampered one.

Caen nodded and said hesitantly, “They said I’m to be your...consort.”

“Of course they did,” he said, realizing he was still holding the elf’s hands. He released them, letting Caen retreat again. “Tell me, did he even bother to be sure you enjoy the company of men?”

Caen flushed and looked away again. “No. I mean, I have. I do. But he didn’t. Ask, that is. And I’ve never...with a human, at least. I-I’m rambling. Thank you. For healing my hands. I wasn’t expecting kindness.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. Typically, he had no particular objection to slavery. He hadn’t ever given it much thought. It was just the way of the world. Everyone struggled, though those struggles might differ. Some people were poor. Some were captives. Some lived lives of constant fear and struggled for power that meant both nothing and everything. He spent his life in a gilded cage. Struggles differed, but were they ever truly better or worse than each other, at least to the person who struggled? 

But this boy had been the victim of a particularly heinous set of crimes. Slavery was likely the least of his worries if his clan was gone. At least here, he had a roof over his head, would have food in his belly, would be afforded a high rank among the slaves for being an altus’ personal servant. There were worse lives, surely. He wouldn’t be treated poorly here, that was certain.

Dorian said, “I’m not interested in the unwilling. I am afraid you’ve been dragged into something that truly has nothing to do with you. You see, I’m an embarrassment to my family. They want me to find a nice little magical broodmare and settle down with her to breed nice little magical colts and fillies to carry on the Pavus line. 

“But the idea of that revolts me, to be honest. I see no possible way for that to work. His idea, I believe, is to provide me with a companion I can’t possibly marry in the hopes that I will agree to an arrangement like my parents have where they come together just often enough to breed an heir and then never speak again except when they must.”

“He can’t force you into a bonding, can he?” the elf asked.

“No, but he can leave me locked away in here like a captive for as long as he wants until I agree. But I am more stubborn than he is, and he’ll die eventually. Then I will be free.”

“When will I be free?” Caen asked.

Dorian looked at him in surprise. “What do you have to go back to? Your people are gone, are they not?”

“No,” Caen said. “At least, I don’t think so. The Keeper was leading all but the hunters to the caves to hide. I led the hunters to buy them time to escape. The battle lasted for hours. I’m certain they had time. We may have lost, but they did not win.”

“Fierce little thing, aren’t you, boy?” Dorian laughed. 

“I’m not a boy. I’m a man grown. I was a year at most from taking my place as Keeper of my clan and training my own First. Dalish may all look young to you ugly shemlen, but we’re not.”

Dorian raised a brow and pouted. “You think I’m ugly?”

“Is that really all you heard?” Caen asked.

“I heard it all, and it’s noted, but that’s the part that wounds me. I have it on good authority I am widely considered wildly attractive.”

The elf rolled his eyes and bit out. “Yes. You are not an ugly shem. Happy?”

“Damned by faint praise, more like,” Dorian quipped. He hadn’t had this much fun in weeks. “It seems my father has brought me a saucy little fennec.”

“What did you call me? A fennec? Because of my ears?” Caen scowled.

Dorian smirked. “And because you remind me of a pet fennec I had once. Snarky little thing, would as soon bite you as let you pet it at first.”

“What happened to it?” he asked.

“He learned to trust. Eventually. I loved that damn fox.”

* * *

_~*~_

**Three**

_~*~_

“Can you read?” The question brought Caen’s head up from the trousers he was mending. 

“Of course I can read,” he answered. 

Dorian nodded as if he’d expected that answer and said, “Good. I’ve a headache. Go down to the library and choose something interesting. You can read it to me while I lie down and pray to the Maker it goes away.”

Caen chewed his lip and debated speaking up. On the one hand, he owed this man nothing. He had no reason to go out of his way for him. On the other, Dorian had treated him well thus far. He’d shared his food. He’d shared his bed instead of leaving him on a pallet on the floor and had done so without forcing himself on him. He’d answered his questions and done his best to explain the new world Caen found himself in. Human or not, he’d been kind. 

Caen offered, “I think I could fix it.” 

Dorian looked blearily at him. Dark circles beneath his eyes marked him like bruises. His skin was paler than Caen had seen it. His brow was beaded with sweat. His long, dark hair hung around his face in a limp sheet. This was no ordinary headache. Caen went to him and crouched down in front of him, slowly lifting his hand to Dorian’s forehead, giving him the option to pull away. When he didn’t, Caen put the back of his fingers to the human’s skin. 

“I think you’re ill, actually,” he said, gently tipping Dorian’s head back and running his fingers along the man’s throat. He tried to ignore the flutter in his belly at the sight of his muscular neck and the heat of his skin beneath his fingertips, the soft scrape of stubble under his hands, and focus instead on the slight swelling he felt there. “Does it hurt when you swallow?”

“Not usually. I quite enjoy swallowing,” Dorian said with an attempt at a rakish grin. He coughed and groaned. “Yes. It hurts. Everything hurts, in fact.”

Caen sat back. “I can make it better. I think. If I can find the right herbs.”

“You’re a healer, are you?” Dorian asked. 

“I was training to be a Keeper,” Caen said. “I have to be able to be anything and everything to my people. Healer, warrior, diplomat, leader, tactician, translator, mage, historian, storyteller, name it. If there is a function within a society, I must know at least the basics of it. I was particularly good at languages and herbalism.”

Dorian nodded. “Go, then, but I advise you not to run. Unless, of course, you have a fondness for blood mages. Then, by all means, do.”

“Blood mages?” he asked.

Dorian coughed and said earnestly, “Father has a phylactery with your blood in it. He keeps one for all the slaves. He can track you anywhere you go. If you run away, he will give you over to a blood mage, and I promise you that your life here will feel like a pleasant dream if that happens. For your own sake. Don’t run.”

“I won’t,” Caen promised. At least, not until he’d found and destroyed the phylactery. This was a good first step, though. He would gain trust if he came back, and they would be more likely to let him go out again at a later date. 

He rose and Dorian grasped his hand. “The apothecary may have some of what you need. The rest should be in the forest nearby or in my mother’s herb garden in the courtyard. I…be careful. There are dangerous people in the woods.” His brow furrowed, and he nodded to himself. “Here. Take my staff. If anyone challenges you about it, tell them to talk to me. I won’t have you out there unprotected.”

Caen’s heart gave a leap, and he squeezed Dorian’s hand. “Thank you, um, master.”

Dorian snorted, tossing back his head and laughing until it turned into a choking cough. Caen firmly patted his back to loosen it up and passed him a cup of water. Dorian took a sip and shook his head.

“Just Dorian, please. While ‘Yes, master,’ is wonderful to hear in bed, I’m not my father. I don’t need fancy titles.”

“Then thank you, Dorian.”

“You’re welcome, Caen. Now, hurry up before I expire.”

“You’re not on your deathbed,” Caen chuckled. “You’ll be fine.”

“Nay. I’m dying. I can feel it. I’m growing weaker by the minute.”

“Well, do try not to. I’d hate to have to get used to someone new.”

“Used to me now, are you?” Dorian said with a smile. “Next you’ll be telling me you like me.”

“Perish the thought,” Caen said with a wink, taking Dorian’s staff and heading for the door. “I will be back.”

~*~*~

It had been weeks since Caen had been in the forest at all, much less alone in it. He took time to wander deep into the woods, breathing in the fragrant scents of damp moss, fresh pine, and clean earth. A wave of homesickness strong enough to bring him to his knees washed over him. He wanted his people. He wanted his homeland. He wanted to be where things were familiar. He wanted his freedom. Dorian was a kind master, but he was a master nonetheless. 

Caen raked his hands over his face, wiping away the tears, and pushed to his feet. Weakness would get him nowhere. Dorian _was_ sick, and he knew how to help him. Keeper had ensured that he could identify most illnesses and knew not just modern treatments but ancient elvhen ones as well. For this, he would need royal elfroot, prophet’s laurel, felandaris, embrium, rashvine nettles, spindleweed, fandal aria, and dried witherstalk. He’d found the prophet’s laurel, fandal aria, and witherstalk in the apothecary, and the spindleweed, embrium, and royal elfroot in the garden. He needed rashvine nettles and felandaris now. The nettles were easy to find, but the felandaris might be more difficult. It only grew where the Veil was thin, so he explored the woods, looking for wisps and wraiths. Surely, there would be something close by given the number of mages here.

He didn’t have to look far. A rage demon caught his eye, stalking between a pair of twisted trees. He wasn’t certain he could handle it on his own, so he attempted to avoid it, but it noticed him and called to him. 

_Are you not angry? Does what they did to your people not fill your heart with righteous fury? Does your enslavement not make you tremble with rage? Come to me, child, and together we will end them all._

“ _Na din’an sahlin_!” he spat at it, taking Dorian’s staff from his back and firing a bolt of pure energy through it. 

It charged him and he leapt aside, sidestepping through the Fade to avoid it, and attacked again and again. It was stronger than anything he’d faced alone, but Dorian’s staff was better than any he’d used, capable of focusing every bit of magic he poured into it. Dorian wasn’t just a mage; he was a powerful one. The demon fell. 

Breathing heavily, he braced his hands on his knees for a moment before beginning his search. It was getting late. He needed to get back before someone came looking for him. He scoured the forest floor until he found it, tucked away under a gnarled bush. 

Turning to head back, he hesitated. What if Dorian was lying about the phylactery? This could be his one chance to escape. He could run. He could find his way back to the Free Marches. Ventus was on the edge of the Arlathan Forest. The Free Marches were due south. He could cut through Antiva, putting the Hundred Pillars between himself and the rest of the Imperium. He had a staff. He could feed himself and knew how to find water. He’d survived in the forests his whole life. 

But if Dorian was telling the truth, he wouldn’t make it to Antiva. Whatever head start he might have had, he’d wasted it searching for herbs. Dorian’s mother had seen him in the garden. She knew where he was going. It was a risk, a big one. He didn’t want to die, and he was relatively safe with Dorian so far. Surely, there would be other opportunities. And Dorian _was_ sick. He might not be dying, but what if he was? 

With a heavy heart, Caen turned back toward the estate.

~*~*~

Dorian pushed himself into a sitting position when Caen returned. He blinked, his mouth falling open slightly before composing himself. “Well, look what the shadowcat dragged in. And bearing gifts, too. See? I told you that you liked me.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” Caen teased back. “You’d make an ugly corpse is all. We can’t have that.”

“Dorian!” his mother exclaimed from the other side of the bed. He hadn’t noticed her there. “Is this how you allow your slave to speak to you?”

“Of course, Mother,” Dorian said. A cough wracked his body. “I’d be thoroughly unamused if he didn’t.”

She said, “You must like this one, then. I wasn’t certain of your father’s plan at first, but who am I to object if it gets me a grandchild?”

Dorian groaned. “Mother, please.”

“No,” she chided, leaning over to dab his damp brow with a cloth. “You are making more out of this than there needs to be. I understand that you don’t enjoy women, but how is that any different than the duty forced upon the vast majority of noblewomen? How few of us actually even like our husbands, much less enjoy or love them? That’s what paramours are for, darling. I’ll give you the same advice my mother gave me. Close your eyes and think of Minrathous, and it will all be over before you know it. Do it a handful of times, and you will have an heir. Then you can do what your father and I do. Buy her a house and live separate lives except when your children force you back into each other’s company.”

“I don’t think it works that way for men, Mother,” Dorian said lightly. “Surely, you know this. If I can’t get aroused in a woman’s presence, how am I supposed to procreate with her?”

“Bring your boy into the bedroom with you,” she suggested. 

“ _Mother_!” Dorian exclaimed, bolting up.

“What?” she asked. “Sex is of the Maker, is it not? Why should we not talk about it? How else are you supposed to learn?”

“Experience is a fine teacher,” Dorian muttered, lying back down. 

“Not when you refuse to get any,” she countered.

“Caen, come save me from this harridan,” Dorian beckoned. “You’re here. She no longer needs to nurse me. Rest assured, Mother, he won’t let me die. If he does, make him deal with my ugly corpse. That’ll teach him.”

Caen hid a smile as he laid the herbs out on the desk and drew a mortar and pestle he’d taken out of the apothecary from his bag. Using a knife, he scraped the bark of the witherstalk and brought it over. 

“Chew on this, but do not swallow it. It will ease your headache.”

Lady Aquinea’s brow furrowed and she reached between them to stop him from taking it. “Everyone knows witherstalk is only efficacious when the sap is fresh, and even then, it is a preventative. It has no healing properties.”

Rather than argue with her, Caen said, “Then it can’t hurt, can it? If I’m wrong, it just won’t work.”

“If there’s even a chance,” Dorian said, taking it from him and popping it into his mouth. “Huh. Not nearly as disgusting as I’d expected.”

“Wait until I make your tea,” Caen warned. “It smells wonderful, but it tastes like witches’ brew and shoe leather.”

“You eat a lot of shoe leather, my dear? No wonder you like the cooking here,” Dorian said, still chewing the bark.

Caen laughed softly, shaking his head. “You know what I meant.”

While he measured and ground the herbs, Aquinea came over to him and said sharply, “Tea? With these? Felandaris is a restorative, but it only works if inhaled. The same with vandal aria. Do you know what those _are_ used for in other forms? Weapons. Poisons. Dorian, I forbid you to drink this. This elf is trying to kill you. Why, we don’t know that he isn’t the one who made you sick in the first place!”

“I have no reason to harm Dorian,” he said, mixing the leaves together and lighting the hearth for the kettle. The sun was going down, and it would get cold soon anyway. Dorian needed to stay warm.

“ _Master_ Dorian to you,” she snapped. “You need to learn your place, elf.”

“Mother, stop,” Dorian ordered. “Leave him alone. He isn’t going to hurt me. He’s not stupid and he knows that would guarantee his death. If he was going to do something untoward, he would have run when he had the chance. I trust him. And I ordered him _not_ to call me ‘master,’ so I would appreciate it if you would stop taking your fear out on my poor servant. I am fine. If you wish to help me, free me from my prison.”

“You’re not in prison, Dorian. Stop being melodramatic,” she said, softening incrementally. 

“Me? Stop being melodramatic? I don’t think I’m capable.”

Caen poured the steaming water over the herbs and let them steep while Dorian’s mother scolded and fussed over him. She was a strange woman, by turns kind and concerned and then waspish and cruel. He didn’t know what to make of her, but Dorian took her in stride, though when she finally left, he sighed in relief and reached out for the brew. 

“Thank you. She is…trying.” He sipped the tea and grimaced. “And you are a terrible cook.”

“I told you it tasted awful,” he said, perching on the side of the bed. “My mother used to make it for me when I was sick.”

“What’s she like?” Dorian asked. 

He chewed his lip for a moment before answering. “Smart. Kind. Firm when she needs to be. Self-sacrificing. Everything I know, I learned from her. She had to find a way to…juggle the mothering when my magic presented, to be mother and mentor. She did it well. I respect her. As I grew, she shifted more to Keeper than mother, but she’s still the dearest person in the world to me.”

“And your father?” he asked.

“Dead,” he answered. “A fall. One of the aravels went over a section of weak ground on the edge of a cliff. There were children inside. He saw the earth crumble and single-handedly shoved the aravel back onto solid ground, but the cliff's edge crumbled away beneath him. One moment, he was there. The next, he was gone. Like he’d vanished.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dorian said, draining the tea and passing the cup back to him with a stifled cough. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Caen nodded. “A sister. We’re twins, actually. She presented later than I did, though, and we already had a Second by then, so she went to live with the Sabrae clan in the south and be their Second. But then she became a Grey Warden and defeated the Blight. I heard she’s bonded to an Antivan Crow now.”

“Your sister is the Hero of Ferelden?” Dorian asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did she have to leave? I don’t understand.”

He said, “Our clans never have more than two or three mages at a time. If we have too many, we send them to other clans to be mentored.”

“Why?” Dorian asked. 

“We have no Circles,” he said. “The Keeper is our teacher. He or she cannot properly focus on more than one or two students at a time. This way, the mages serve the clan. We don’t hold it hostage to our rule.”

“Like Tevinter, you mean,” Dorian said, shifting to lay his head in Caen’s lap. He cleared his throat but didn’t cough again. 

Caen hesitantly ran his fingers through the man’s dark hair. When Dorian sighed peacefully, he gently massaged his temples. “Yes and no. Have you ever seen a Dalish possessed by a demon? Or using blood magic at all? Have you ever seen one of us lose control? I’m sure it’s happened at some point, but it’s not common the way it is in the cities because of our training. We aren’t taught to fear it like the Circle, and we aren’t taught to use it to better ourselves individually like you are here. Its use is for the good of the clan, not our own power. Therefore, it is nothing to be feared.”

“Our people would claim they’re using it to better society, too,” Dorian said, his eyes drifting closed. He turned so that his forehead pressed against Caen’s belly. “Have you ever been tempted?”

“Once or twice. Never before the raiders,” he said, stroking his hair. It was long and soft against his fingers, loose from its usual bun. It flowed over his hand like a dark river. “During the attack, I…wondered for a moment. If it wouldn’t serve my clan, protect them.”

“And the other?” 

“Today,” he admitted. “There was a rage demon in the woods. It felt me. Called to me.”

Dorian cracked an eye open and looked up at him. “Angry, are we? I don’t blame you. But you look as handsome as ever, so I assume you got away.”

“I killed it,” he said.

“Impressive.” Dorian’s arm slid around his waist and he settled closer. “Glad I sent my staff with you, then. I was thinking of people as threats, but there are demons in these woods. Mmm. Whatever that nasty brew was, it seems to be working. Unless you _are_ trying to kill me and I won’t wake up from this sleep I’m drifting into. ...In which case, it seems to be working.”

Caen chuckled. “Sleep, Dorian. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“I’m going to free you,” he said against his belly. “When I can. I’ll get you home. I promise.” 

His eyes closed again and his breathing evened out. Caen remained where he was, not wanting to risk waking him, and watched him sleep. He hardly dared hope that Dorian was telling the truth and it wasn’t just his fever talking. But if he was…he could go home.

* * *

_~*~_

**Four**

_~*~_

It was about damn time his family let him out of his cage, even if it was only to go for a walk in Ventus with his parents present and strict orders to avoid taverns, pubs, and houses of ill repute.

As if he would take Caen into one of the latter. That would just be rude. Unless Caen also wanted to indulge, of course. But there was no good way to ask something like that, and he didn’t want to hurt his feelings or offend him somehow. 

Father refused to allow him to give Caen his own room, saying his bed was perfectly large enough for two. Hoping, he was sure, that Dorian would be more likely to have sex with him then.

Not that he didn’t want to. He did. Caen was one of the most beautiful elves he’d ever met, and elves had long been his favorite partners. He had a wicked sense of humor, didn’t kowtow to him, was smart as a whip—the man could read, write, and speak three languages and was already learning Tevene to boot—and kind, too. 

He’d heard that the elven slaves had started coming to Caen when they learned he’d been trained as one of their leaders. Mother was concerned about his influence, but from what Dorian could determine, Caen was simply advising them on mundane matters, not looking to start a rebellion. He’d also watched him down in the courtyard with some of the children, telling them stories and playing games with them. When he went into the forest to collect things for Dorian, he brought back seeds for Mother’s garden and herbs for Father’s potions without being asked. He had no reason to like any of them, and he could be short when the mood struck, but kindness seemed inherent to his nature. 

Dorian was smitten. He enjoyed his company. He liked talking to him. Listening to him read or sing was one of his new favorite pastimes. He particularly enjoyed laying his head in Caen’s lap while he did so. And he was coming to expect to find Caen’s head pillowed on his chest in the night. That might be his favorite thing of all. Or perhaps it was waking up beside him, seeing him in those first unguarded moments before the reality of his situation pressed in. 

He’d never imagined a life of simple domesticity with another person, had never allowed himself to imagine such. But he found himself imagining it with Caen more than was wise. Surely, the man didn’t feel the same about him. And any attempts to get closer to him could be nothing but ingratiating himself with the master. He was a fool to think any differently.

But he’d caught Caen’s eyes lingering when the elf didn’t realize he was watching. And he’d seen his face soften when Dorian put his head in his lap. He’d certainly felt interest when they were lying together in the night. It was sometimes all he could do not to take him in hand and have his way with him. 

There was something there, right? Things had changed between them with the promise of Caen’s freedom. Caen was no longer a _slave_. He was more like a…guest who couldn’t leave yet.

Of course, if Caen was wrong and his people were slaughtered, he would have nowhere to go. In which case, there was every chance that he was simply earning his citizenship. He would have to serve for ten years regardless. He might as well do so with Dorian where he wouldn’t be harmed. 

And speaking of harm, why was his little elf talking to a qunari? A very large, very pissed off qunari. Of course, they were always pissed off, so that wasn’t saying much. 

“So let me get this straight. You want me to abandon my gods for yours, leave behind the only people I know in this part of the world to come live somewhere where strangers will tell me what to do and I will never have any choices. And you think this is a _good_ idea? Better than being owned by someone who gives at least half a shit about my well-being?”

“Yes,” the qunari grunted. 

Dorian came to stand beside him, subtly attempting to usher him away. “Let’s be honest, I give _at least_ three-quarters of a shit about you, dear. Credit where credit is due and all that. I’m sure you’re having a lovely conversation about the merits of various forms of slavery, but we should get moving.”

The qunari ignored him. “You would need to be re-educated first.”

“Re-educated?” Caen asked. “Would that, by chance, involve any form of torture?”

“It can,” the qunari said.

Caen blinked slowly. “So you want me to leave here to go with you to be put through a _torture camp_ so that I can be a slave to your people?” 

Oh, no. This wasn’t going to go over well. “Caen.”

“Are you completely insane or are you joking?” 

The qunari’s scowl deepened. Dorian took the elf by the elbow. “ _Caen_.”

“What a _stupid_ religion.”

That did it. “Caen!”

“What?”

“Run.”

Caen seemed to look up at the qunari’s thunderous face for the first time. “Well, shit.” 

Dorian grabbed the staff he’d strapped to his back and put himself between Caen and the qunari. He cast a fireball at the latter, following it with a lightning bolt that might as well have missed for all the good it did. Fear of mages worked better than physical attack with them anyway. Necromancy wasn’t as easy when there weren’t dead bodies lying around, but he was able to cast a horror that panicked the qunari. Unfortunately, that just pissed him off, and he charged at Dorian. 

Rather than run when he had the chance, Caen stepped up beside him, crackling with energy. The elf raised his hands and the ground split open. Roots ruptured from the dirt, wrapping around the qunari. Dorian lit them on fire, enclosing him in a bonfire, and grabbed Caen’s hand. 

Together, they ran through the streets of Ventus, dodging litters and jumping over rain barrels. Caen’s laughter sparked his own, and when Dorian pulled him into the shadow of a golden dragon, his green eyes sparkled like emeralds. He was beautiful, brave and strong and everything Dorian had ever wanted. 

Before he could talk himself out of it, he gave in to temptation and ducked his head, pressing his lips to Caen’s smiling ones. The elf’s laugh turned to a groan and his hands came up to Dorian’s chest. They pushed and pulled and clenched in his robe. Soft lips parted for him and heat met his tongue.

His heart pounded like the pulse of his staff in battle, attacking his ribs. There was nothing discreet about this, nothing wise. He didn’t give a nug’s arse. 

“And you wonder why we don’t let you leave the estate.” His mother’s voice, right on cue.

He pulled away, looking into the disappointed eyes of his parents. “I would think you should be happy. You were pushing this, after all.”

Father glowered. “A fight with the qunari in the public square? Your tongue down a male elf’s throat in front of the altus baths?!”

He smirked. “Calm down, Father. I assure you far worse things occur _inside_ the baths than this out of it.”

Mother said, “That’s it! I am arranging a meeting with Vilonia’s daughter. She has been hinting at a union for months. We will accept it, and you will be married by the end of the year. I am _done_ with suffering your scandals.”

He shook his head sharply and stepped forward. “No! You see, that’s where your little plan backfires. You really think I would care for someone and then force him to sit by and watch me marry another? Disappear into her chambers of a night? No. I will not live that way. I will not squander my life dying by degrees like you two. If that means I never marry, so be it.”

“You,” Aquinea hissed at Caen. “You did this with your witches’ brew. You poisoned his mind!” 

She lifted her hand to strike him, but Dorian caught her wrist, holding it in a punishing grip. “If you touch him, Mother, I swear by Andraste herself that I will leave Tevinter, and you will never see your son again.”

Father said placatingly, “We should take this elsewhere, out of the public eye, and give cooler heads time to prevail.”

“Fine,” Dorian snapped, releasing his mother, “but Caen rides with me.”

* * *

_~*~_

**Five**

_~*~_

Conflicted feelings tore at Caen over the next weeks as Dorian’s family traipsed noblewoman after noblewoman in front of him. Caring about the outcome meant that he was considering any kind of a future with the man, which meant staying here, which meant giving up on his clan and freedom. But he couldn’t stop the tinge of jealousy when the women came even though he knew Dorian didn’t want them.

He found himself cuddling closer to the mage when they slept. They shared more kisses—these in private—but Dorian held back, always stopping before things went too far. His dark eyes lingered on Caen, though, something he no longer bothered to hide. 

At some point, Caen had stopped plotting his escape. He’d found his phylactery. He could go at any point. He simply kept finding excuses not to.

In his honest moments, he admitted he didn’t want to leave Dorian. The man had put himself between Caen and a qunari and between Caen and his mother. Caen felt safe with him in a way he hadn’t since the first time shemlen had attacked his clan when he was a child. 

He was returning a book to the library when he heard Dorian’s name and stopped to listen.

“If he won’t cooperate on his own, then I must take matters into my own hands.” Dorian’s father.

“It’s necessary, Master, for his own good.”

“Yes, but…blood magic? I have told Alexius I want no part in it. Am I being selfish, darling? Do I have the right to change him in such a way?”

“This isn’t for your own personal gain, Master. It is for your family. How can that be selfish?”

Dorian’s father gave an exasperated sigh. “His…proclivities have been a part of him since he was a child. He has never shown interest in females of any race. To change such a basic aspect of his character against his will...and the risks….”

“Is the best thing for him, is it not?” the slave asked. “What has it brought him but trouble? _His_ life would be so much easier, not just yours. You’re helping him. Either he’s normal or he’s at peace.”

Another sigh, this one defeated. “You’re right. You always give me such wise counsel, my dear. Please, summon him to the library and ensure that we are not interrupted. You may need to distract his slave somehow. I will go prepare the ritual. Best to get this over with.”

Alarm shot through Caen. He turned on his heel with the book still in hand and bolted for Dorian’s quarters, knocking into the cook and nearly bowling over one of the serving girls. He didn’t slow. He burst into the room, breathing heavily. 

Dorian’s eyes widened. “Are you alright?”

“We must leave,” Caen said. “Now. Hurry.”

Dorian rose to his feet. “Leave? For where? Why?”

Caen rushed to the dresser and grabbed the first things he could put his hands on, heedless of which of them it belonged to, shoving them into a satchel and slinging it over his shoulder. He tossed Dorian’s staff to him and looked wildly around the room. What to take? What to leave? How much time did they have? How long would it take the magister to prepare?

“Caen, answer me, damn it!”

“Your father. He wants to perform a blood ritual. Change you. I heard him talking to Lathiel. She’s coming to get you. The library. He’s going to do it in the library. We must go, Dorian. _Please_ , trust me.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed as he shifted his grip on the staff. “You’re certain? He wants to change me…how?”

“Make you prefer women,” Caen said, desperation clipping his words. “He said there were risks. I think it could kill you. We must go!”

“How would he even do that?” Dorian demanded. “Something like that is as likely to turn me into a babbling idiot as it is to change my preferences. And even if it worked….” He trailed off, studying Caen’s face. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? As insane as it sounds, you’re not making this up for your own freedom or gain.”

“Of course not. I couldn’t even begin to make up something like this. Please, can we hurry?”

Dorian cast a look at the door and shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, Father,” he whispered, then looked at Caen. “We’ll need to get your phylactery from his quarters or he’ll track us.”

Together, they ran down the stairs, stashing the bag and staff near the servants entrance, and dashed across to the magister’s wing, dipping into shadows and ducking into empty rooms to avoid the servants.

As they passed by the library, Dorian hesitated, casting a torn look between Caen and the door. Putting a finger to his lips, he pushed open the door just enough to peer in. The blood drained from his face, his eyes widening, and he backed away, grabbing Caen’s hand and breaking into a run.

They made it to the magister’s doorway without incident, but the scrape of a boot gave an instant's warning before a guard turned the corner. Dorian grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him up against the wall and kissing him like he was about to take him then and there. He was everywhere. His tongue swept into Caen’s mouth, hot and hungry. His hands fisted in his hair and clutched his ass, holding their bodies flush. His heat and the spicy scent of herbs wrapped around him. Dorian pushed a thigh between his, rocking their hips together and moaning loudly in his throat. Like he wanted to be found. 

Caen’s breath caught, his heart pounding in his chest like stampeding halla. His arms found their way around Dorian’s neck, his hands burying themselves in his hair. The corridor spun around him, leaving Dorian the only solid point to cling to. He opened for him, giving himself over to the kiss. When Dorian’s hand slid further down, tightening on his ass and lifting his hip, he eagerly wrapped his leg around the other man’s waist. He’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted him now.

Dorian drew back, glancing down the hallway before locking eyes on Caen’s swollen lips. “I think he’s gone. We should hurry, though. If he tells Father he saw us here, he’ll know.” But he didn’t release Caen. His thumb brushed over the curve of his ass, his hand sliding down to cup Caen’s cheek. 

“We should go, yes,” Caen whispered breathlessly. 

“We’ll finish this later,” Dorian promised. “When we’re safe and you’re free.”

Abruptly, he released him, but he took him by the hand and tugged Caen after him, and they slipped into the magister’s quarters to fetch the phylactery. Dorian knew where his father kept it and read the Tevene script with an ease that hadn’t come to Caen yet. Dorian plucked the vial from its holder and dropped it onto the stone floor, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot with a conspiratorial grin.

“ _Manaveris dracona_ ,” he spat, taking Caen by the hand again. “Long live the fucking dragons. Far away from us. Come, amatus. Let’s get you home.”

* * *

_~*~_

**Six**

_~*~_

They escaped into the forest, narrowly avoiding discovery by the servants and household guard. It wasn’t until they stopped to catch their breath that it sank in that he had not a coin to his name, was on foot, and now possessed only the clothes on his back and whatever Caen had managed to stuff into that bag on his shoulder.

He sank down onto a mossy boulder and raked his hands through his hair. Father was going to use blood magic on him. To _change_ him, make him more _acceptable_.

Did Mother know? Had she approved this? He could go to her, but if she’d given her consent, she would just send him back.

If Caen hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t heard what he did and cared enough to warn him, Dorian shuddered to think what would have become of him. 

The elf crouched down in front of him, running a gentle hand down his arm and looking up at him with concern. “Are you alright, lethallin?”

“He was going to bind me to that table, alter my mind, change who I am,” he said, shaking his head. “No. I am not alright. But you, you saved me. Thank you, Caen. I…I don’t know what to do now. I have nothing to offer you. I don’t know who to trust. I cannot stay in Tevinter. I find myself at a loss.”

Caen stroked a hand over his hair and gave him a gentle smile. “We’ll go to the Free Marches and find my clan. They’ll accept you. And if they don’t, we’ll go somewhere else. I don’t need you to offer anything but yourself. That is…if you even….” He looked away and shifted his weight. “There seems to be something between us, but I don’t know if it’s real.”

Dorian barked a laugh. Hurt flashed across Caen’s face, but he couldn’t stop. He laughed until tears ran from his eyes and he had to clutch his aching sides. He laughed until he couldn’t catch his breath again.

When Caen’s face closed off and he jerked to his feet and turned on his heel, Dorian grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto his lap, wrapping his arms around the elf and pressing their foreheads together. Caen was stiff but didn’t pull away.

Dorian said, “I’m not laughing at you, amatus. The situation is so ridiculous, I can do nothing else. If you’d told me this morning that we would end up in the woods on the run from my father the blood mage, and declaring ourselves whilst sitting on a rock, utterly destitute and uncertain how we will even survive to make it to the Free Marches, I would have told you you’d gone mad. This is madness.”

Caen chewed his lip and said, “I would rather have madness with you than normalcy with anyone else.”

Dorian stilled. “You mean that? Caen, I…among my people, relations between people like us are…not serious. They’re permitted, to be sure, but you must guard your heart because it will go nowhere. I’ve never allowed myself to hope for more, but you…I care far more than I should for you. I should have found a way to free you months ago, but I did not want to lose you.”

Caen said, “I could have escaped months ago. I didn’t want to leave you. I care for you, Dorian, and I want you for as long as I can have you.”

“I feel the same,” he said, hope blooming in his chest. “We do this together, then.”

“Good,” Caen said, kissing him softly. “Then let’s get moving. I would like to put more distance between us and your estate before nightfall.”

“We have no food, no water, no mounts, and no money,” Dorian pointed out. “I’m afraid this is going to be an unpleasant journey.”

Caen slipped off his lap and held out a hand. “I’ve lived my entire life off the land, traveling from place to place. We won’t starve, Dorian. I know how to hunt and how to find water. I know which plants heal and which harm, which are safe to eat and which are poison. And if we can find a herd of halla, we may even be able to acquire a mount.”

“Halla?” he asked. “What good will a wild halla do us? What are you going to do, ask it to carry us?”

“Yes,” Caen said. “How do you think we convince them to pull our aravels?”

“Train them?”

Caen chuckled, stepping over a large root. “No. They choose to aid us.”

~*~*~

He didn’t fully believe it until they came across a herd of the regal white stags and Caen approached them. One allowed him to get close and the elf leaned in, speaking softly to it. Dorian watched, not wanting to interrupt whatever magic he was witnessing. After a few moments, a pair stepped out of the herd and Caen thanked them. He gestured for Dorian to join him. 

Caen said, “Let her scent you. Talk to her. If she accepts you, she’ll let you ride her.”

Dorian held out his hand. What was one supposed to say to a wild beast? He settled on, “Dorian Pavus, at your service. If you would lend your aid, I would be eternally grateful.”

The halla looked at Caen and back at him, ducking her head in what looked to be a nod. He raised an eyebrow at Caen, who _did_ nod. 

“Mount up,” the elf said, cupping his hands to give him a leg up onto the animal’s bare back.

“How do I control her?” he asked.

“Ask for what you want,” Caen said. “They know we’re traveling south and they know the area better than we do. So we trust them to get us there safely. If she refuses you, there’s likely a reason.”

“Alright,” Dorian agreed, accepting the leg up and settling onto the halla’s narrow back. 

The animal was far more slender than a horse, but when she began to walk, it was with a grace even the best of his father’s horses couldn’t manage. He watched Caen leap gracefully aboard his own mount and settle lightly on its back and emulated his position. 

Caen smiled at him. “It occurs to me that you are the first human I know of to ever ride a halla. If she will stay with us until we find my clan, that will go a long way toward earning their acceptance.”

Never in his wildest dreams had he ever considered joining up with a Dalish clan. He’d been raised in a life of luxury. Now it seemed he was doomed to spend the rest of it wandering the wilds as a second-class citizen, living out of those strange land ships he’d seen a time or two, eating berries and meat cooked over a campfire, drinking water out of animal skins. Not quite the fine castle he’d seen on his first trip into the Fade.

It wasn’t as unpleasant as he would have expected, though. Caen was at home in a way he’d never been at the estate. He guided them with the same certainty and self-confidence that had kept him from ever truly being a slave even when he was living as one.

True to his word, he hunted and gathered their food as they traveled, found sources of fresh water, created shelters from saplings and branches, and made even the dankest caves homey. He dried pelts to make pallets for them to sleep on. Dorian had once teased him about being a terrible cook, but the meals he prepared over a simple campfire were sometimes more appetizing than the most despair-tasting ham from the best kitchens. 

Dorian helped as much as he could, though he’d rarely been more out of his element. He collected wood for fire and moss and leaves to pad their bedding. He sewed skins for water and fashioned cloaks for them out of wolf pelts for protection against the cold. He bullshitted their way past patrols and set wards against demons in areas where the Veil was thin.

They traveled for more than a week before reaching the Free Marches and then began the trek to locate the clan. They followed the route his clan would take through the area, avoiding Templars and rebel mages, searching diligently for the elves. As they passed through camp after camp, each one emptier than the last, Caen’s eyes began to take on a shadow of doubt. Dorian tried to cheer him, but the flicker of a smile was the best he could hope for on some days. 

A month after running from Tevinter, Caen’s halla picked up its pace, all but dancing ahead, and Caen straightened, leaning forward. Dorian asked his own halla—something that had become normal to him over the past weeks—to catch up to them. She floated forward, coming up beside the other pair as they crested a rise.

Below, spread out across a sheltered valley, was a village with aravels and large tents and pavilions sprawling across the land. A pen held a herd of halla. A merchant had wares laid out across a wooden table in front of his tent. A fire burned in the center of it all. And everywhere he looked, there were elves. 

“They live,” Caen breathed, breaking into a smile. “They’re here!”

The halla leapt down the hill, and Dorian held his breath as they approached the camp. A trio of elves armed with bows met them, their arrows trained on Dorian. But they loosened their draw when they realized what he rode and recognized Caen.

“Caen?” one of them said. “We thought you were dead! You’re back! You’re safe! Shereen, fetch the Keeper!”

“And who is this?” another asked, pointing to Dorian. “A shem on a halla. I’ve never!”

Caen said, “This is Dorian. My friend. He will be staying with me. Please, lower your weapons. He’s no enemy. He is…ma vhenan.”

“Caen?!” A woman ran up to them, reaching for him. “You’re home!”

“Keeper!” Caen said, slipping off of his halla and going into her arms. “Mother.”

Dorian dismounted and scratched his halla’s forehead in thanks the way he’d learned she liked. She affectionately head butted his shoulder before calling to her mate. The two of them turned and bounced into the forest.

The woman turned her attention to Dorian. “A shemlen accepted by a halla. How can we do any less? Welcome to Clan Lavellan. I am Keeper Istimaethoriel.”

“Dorian Pavus,” he said, giving her a sweeping bow. “At your service, madam. Caen speaks highly of you. It is an honor to finally meet you.”

She inclined her head. “And how do you know my First?”

Dorian didn’t know how to answer that, so he let Caen say, “I was captured by the raiders and taken to Tevinter where I was sold to Dorian’s family. I was given to him and we escaped together when we could. He can’t go back, in part because of me. I told him he could have a place among the People. If I overstepped, then we will regroup here while we figure out our next steps and then leave peacefully.”

She looked at Dorian for a long moment, her moss green eyes seeming to peer into his soul. “What is my son to you, Lord Pavus?”

For a moment, he was tempted to make a joke, but he sensed that Caen’s future with his family rode on his answer. “Amatus,” he said seriously. “Beloved.”

She nodded. “ _Atish’all vhenas_ , Dorian Pavus.”

They went into the camp as a group and the other elves ran up to them, embracing Caen and calling his name. A group of elven children crowded around his legs, chattering excitedly at him. He scooped one up into his arms, teasing her about growing too much while he was gone. He was loved by his people in a way that Dorian had never seen in Tevinter. It made him feel simultaneously out of place and envious. 

When they were finally alone, washing away the grime from their journey in a secluded hot spring, he drew Caen to him. The elf came willingly, kissing him with an urgency that took his breath away. Caen’s hands explored his chest and shoulders, roaming down his back and tracing the dip of his spine. Soft lips, sharp teeth, and hot tongue chased water droplets over skin that was by turns smoldering and frosted as Dorian’s control frayed. 

Dorian slid a hand into his pale hair, cradling his head, and palmed his ass, pulling their bodies flush. It wasn’t enough. He needed to get closer, to forget where he ended and the other man began, to be one skin, one breath, one heartbeat.

“Amatus,” he groaned against Caen’s lips, his hand coming around to wrap around his hardened length. Caen’s sharp, surprised moan went straight to his groin, alighting him with need. 

“Take me, vhenan,” Caen whispered harshly, stroking him in the water and sucking gently at his throat. “I’m yours.”

“Would that I could, my dear,” he said somewhat breathlessly, “but I have nothing to ease the passage, so to speak, and I don’t wish to hurt you. There are other ways, though.”

Caen broke away, backing through the water with a coy smile that made Dorian’s heart flip. “I have what we need.” 

He plucked a plant from the water, snapping its stem and letting the sap run over his fingers. When Dorian reached him, he smoothed the slick fluid over him. Dorian lifted him up, wrapping Caen’s legs around his waist, and carried him over to the bank, laying him on the soft ground.

Picking another of the plants, he coated his fingers in sap, sliding them over the cleft of his ass. Caen’s back arched, a moan mewling from his lips. The elf’s fingers dug into his shoulders, his other hand smoothly working him, stealing his self-control and leaving him trembling.

He pressed a finger into his tight, silken passage, slowly stroking inside him. Caen’s choked moans filled his ears. The elf bent and his mouth replaced his hand, drawing a harsh moan of his own. His head fell back as he fought for control, telling himself not to finish here and now, and he worked a second finger into the other man. Caen rode his hand, giving himself over with an openness that awed him. Green eyes met his, darkened with lust and twilight. 

Caen’s mouth left him, cool air washing over his heated skin and making him wish for it back. “I need you, vhenan.”

“You have me, amatus,” he said, sliding his fingers free and shifting between his lover’s thighs. 

Ducking his head, he kissed him slow and deep as he sank into the heat of his body. Caen’s arms wrapped around his neck, his legs coming around his waist again, surrounding him. Sparks crackled over Caen’s skin, and Dorian imagined the very ground rolled with them as he thrust into him, seating himself fully in him. He watched Caen’s face, drinking in the sight of him undone, loving every sigh, every moan, every flutter of his eyelids. Loving _him_. 

They moved as one, melding into each other until there was no Dorian or Caen but only _them_. Heat built, consuming them, and he buried himself again and again. His heart thundered in his ears, desire streaking bolts of lightning under his skin. Caen’s lean muscles twitched, his body tightening around him like a vise, and he called out Dorian’s name as he spurted his release onto his belly. With a final hard thrust, Dorian stiffened, spilling his own release into him, and collapsed over him, breathing heavily.

This was the part where he or his partners rolled away, thanking the other for the fun, and went their separate ways. This was the part where they shut down, where his heart had to harden.

But Caen’s fingers trailed through his wet hair, and his soft lips found Dorian’s. Dorian’s moan now was one of relief and longing. He melted into his lover, holding him close, savoring this moment. 

When Caen rolled them onto their sides and traced a finger over his ear, he shivered and whispered, “What is it you call me? Vhenan? What does that mean?”

Caen’s eyes searched his. “ _Ma vhenan_? My heart. My home.”

Home. What a strange word in a place like this where nothing was permanent but the people. But as he looked into eyes the color of the forest around them, he knew it was true. His home, wherever he might lay his head, was here with him.


End file.
